


Victor's Secret (You Know You're Supposed to Keep It)

by LemonSchwaySchway



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, Anxiety, Feminization, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Praise Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy, kinda but not really slow burn, overly long psuedo-investigations of gender performance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 18:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11190747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonSchwaySchway/pseuds/LemonSchwaySchway
Summary: Victor is a premiere designer of some of the world's most scintillating lingerie. Problem is, he's been creatively blocked for months now. Enter: Yuuri Katsuki, neither a designer nor a particularly fashionable person, but the son and heir to a large fabric production conglomerate who's decided he'd try for the internship at Victor's studio in hopes of getting close to the greatest idol of his young life.It seems, however, that their futures might be laced together in more ways than one.





	Victor's Secret (You Know You're Supposed to Keep It)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so, lingerie has been a very popular theme on twitter lately and this is an incredibly self-indulgent expression of that. Kind of why the title is doubly cliche, as it's both an easy pun and a Halsey lyric so, leave me be I'm admititng to my ridiculousness ok. It's also _very_ loosely based off of the Netflix Japan's Original Series "Atelier" which I highly suggest y'all watch, as it is so good and has an adorable protagonist that I unashamedly love, when the leading ladies of J-dramas tend to bore me to tears.
> 
> Anyway, this is otherwise known as the fic where I put Yuuri Katsuki in a lot of fancy lingerie because I have a complicated relationship with my own gender and can't afford nice undies. Tags to be updated as necessary.
> 
> Also this is an incredibly slow intro chapter (that um, got FILTHY on it's own), can you tell I am a character writer.

The red lace trim that just came in is so beautiful, the fact that it would be a _shame_ if Victor throttled himself with it is the only reason keeping him from doing so.

God knows he couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.

Instead, he plays with the delicate fabric, his fingertips tracing the webbing between scalloped edges as his cheek presses heavily into the pile of scribbled-on design sheets and textile order forms on his desk, pencils strewn about every which way, so that Victor’s sure one of them is poking him in the neck

His desk is at the back of the main workshop, given a wide enough berth that Victor could spread himself and his materials as far as he wanted while in a frenzy and not have anyone unwillingly get caught up. After he’d used Georgi as both a model and a breast mold, the junior designers forced him farther back, boss or no. It made sense, but, as he listens to the others chitter past a rack of long-line brassieres, he feels slightly lonely.

Inspiration seemed to escape him no matter how he plotted to catch it. He’d spent all of last week at a small cafe around the corner with Makkachin at his feet and a constant stream of espresso, far too many of the baristas at first lovestruck and then subtly annoyed with his lack of response. Makkachin had licked a sore spot onto his left ankle.

Nothing he could come up with was new. Everything looks uncomfortably familiar; at one point he’d thought he’d broken through his block only to realized he’d designed a set exactly like one he’d created in a drunken stupor two years prior. Victor didn’t know what to do, what he _could_ do. He has an exhibition in two months and absolutely shit to show for it.

His piteous wallowing is interrupted when Chris sits his Armani-clad ass on top of his desk, directly in his line of sight, though thankfully taking care to avoid the lace or a stray pencil.

“Victor.”

He contemplates not responding, but that would be _too_ petty. “Yes, Chris?”

Chris seems to sigh, but Victor can’t see his face. “I can’t say anything to magically fix you, no one can, but put a comb through your hair and come introduce yourself to the new intern.”

Victor shoots up in his chair, a piece of crumpled paper sticking to his cheek. “New intern?!” Victor says, more to himself. Did they tell him about this? Did he sign off on anything about this? Why can’t he _remember_?

“Yeah, the new intern,” Chris repeats. “Lillia hired him before she retired and left us all for six months in Vladivostok. He starts today.”

“A new intern,” Victor says again. Nothing else had helped, maybe some fresh blood could get him out of his rut. “Show me.”

“That’s what I came back here for, _mon ami_.” Chris crooks a finger, making a smile peak out from behind Victor’s overly dramatic layer of depression through the corners of his mouth.

Chris stands and Victor follows, past bolts of fabric and racks of both partially and completely finished pieces. They mock him, but he ignores them now in favor of indulging his ever-present curiosity. Christ takes him to the storefront, and with a flourish, puts him square in front of a small Asian man in an ill-fitting gray suit. He mumbles some sort of introduction, including his name. Victor was about to quip something, feeling slightly off-kilter at being presented with the absolute last thing he could have expected for an intern at a luxury lingerie designer, but then Mr. Intern-I-mean-um-Yuuri looks up.

Later, Victor will only admit this in either intoxicated Russian or during sex, but Yuuri Katsuki has him, hook, line, and sinker in that moment, no matter what comes next. He’ll come up with a better story at some point.

Yuuri has his hair gelled back, but messily, like it isn’t usually and as if he’d tried to copy what someone else had done. His glasses are slightly chunkier than what Victor would pick, but they frame his soft face rather well, almost on purpose (Victor thinks it’s probably not). His lips look soft as he speaks, fluent English with the barest hint of an accent sharp on a few of the rounder consonants, and Victor doesn’t look away until Chris elbows him in the ribs and realizes that Yuuri looks on the edge of a nervous explosion.

“Oh, well, hi! I’m Victor Nikiforov, head designer and current director,” Victor says with his usual - if slightly shaky - bombast, holding out a hand. Yuuri stares at it for a second, before taking it gingerly. The grip is delicate, but there are calluses along the sides of his fingers and a clear strength beneath the skin.

“Yes, uh, I know. I applied here because, well, because I really admire you- um, your designs, Mr. Nikiforov.” Yuuri seems to be staring at his nose instead of his eyes, and Victor suddenly gets the feeling that he’s done something wrong, even as the words make him shiver slightly. In delight, goddamn it, in _delight_.

“You flatter me, but please don’t fuss with the formality, it’s just Victor around here,” Victor says, laughing.

He hears Mila’s smirking voice from behind him. “Yeah, he doesn’t need a bigger head, he’s got barely enough hair for it as it is.” Victor squashes the urge to elbow her, but only because he’s working on a nice first impression here.

“What brought you to my designs?” Victors says in response, dismissive of the teasing, his faint narcissism unintentional, honest. Yuuri looks less uncomfortable with that question than Victor expected.

“My family runs a fabric mill here, and well, I’ve always like the more, um, elegant offerings, which led me to your label. I’ve been to a few shows and design fairs that you were in.” Yuuri mumbles the last part again, apparently embarrassed. Had they met before, and was Victor being a total ass about it?

Victor smiles anyway, putting a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “We’re happy to have you here, then Yuuri!” Chris nods along in agreement, winking, and Mila and Georgi chime in with their own ‘yes, definitely’s. Victor’s glad Yuri hasn’t come by today, the poor boy is going to _hate_ not being the only Yuri in Victor’s life, even if he’ll just complain about the confusion when he comes by and be offended by Yuuri’s demeanor.

Victor decides in that moment that Yuri Plisetsky, psuedo-nephew extraordinaire, will be receiving a new nickname.

Distracted by that thought, it takes a minute for Victor to realize that Yuuri’s now looking anywhere but him, so takes pity and links arms with Yuuri despite the six centimeter difference. The boy desperately needs a new suit; the arm next to his feels strong, if rather tense, and it’s a goddamn shame Victor can’t see it. If Victor was feeling willful - and Victor rarely _isn’t_  feeling willful - he might try to design one. He hasn’t touched anything not lingerie-related in ages, maybe that could get him out of his funk. He starts pulling Yuuri past the storefront and into the main section of the workshop, Mila, Georgi, and Chris following amusedly behind. “We’ll have to find you a station, but I’m sure there’s space, we’re a little short-handed at the moment anyway.”

Yuuri seems shocked, but also appears to be nodding along to Victor’s non-requests. Victor drags him to a table near the rack of bras separating his own desk from the main room, plopping Yuuri down on the stool next to it. Victor wants to see what he can do; the other three in the room are just curious. “Yuuri, do you have any design experience?”

Finally Yuuri looks him in the eyes, even if it’s slightly terrified. “Um, no. Not officially, but, well, I know materials and I know what kind of things I like…”

Victor could feel his face stretch with his grin. “Well, that’s too bad, but then it means we’ll have something to teach you, after all. Up until now, everyone new has come from design programs,” he says, putting his right elbow in his left hand and gently cradling his chin with the delicate fingers of the other. “And maybe, _you_ can teach _us_.”

Yuuri’s face is torn between crushed and delighted. Victor’s impressed that those two emotions can be felt simultaneously. “I’d like to try.”

“Good, good!” Victor’s voice might be over loud, but his excitement has always manifested as a bit… much. “Okay then, today I’ll give you time to talk to everyone and look around. Ask anyone, me included, if you need help, but tomorrow we’re going to start to put you to work, yeah?” Victor spins to the others, who scatter slowly, and starts heading in the direction of his desk. “Oh, and Yuuri?”

Victor glances over his shoulder as he says it and sees Yuuri’s shoulders tense again. “Yes?”

“I want you to get a new suit, that one’s atrocious.”

***

It’s not until later, after everyone’s gone home - Yuuri with much insistence and possibly a little threatening, as he doesn’t even know what he’s _doing_ yet, but he’s also so _eager_ \- and the commotion of the day has bled from Victor’s muscles, leaving him tired and still stuck in his rut, that he remembers.

He _had_ met Yuuri before.

His phone is out and the number dialled before he can fully process it. “Chris.”

“Victor,” Chris says, smiling so audibly that his impression of Victor’s Serious Tone doesn’t really work.

“Yuuri’s the one from that show in Milan.”

“Yes he is, _mon ami_.”

“The Dita Von Teese party.”

“Correct again.”

“ _Chris, what the fuck_.”

Chris chuckles instead of responding at first. “I’m surprised it took you this long, but then, poor Yuuri doesn’t seem to remember it either. You’ve seen him since, though.”

Victor squeezes the pencil he was attempting to sketch with so hard it cracks. “Not like _that_.”

“That’s so mean, Victor,” Chris croons into the phone, “forgetting him just like that, he’s special even in his frumpy suit, too.”

“Chris, goddamn it, I am having a _crisis_ about this- wait, you said Yuuri doesn’t remember?” Victor stops his moment of hyperventilation to examine the idea. It did make a bit of sense, though Victor’s first thought, now that his memory had _not_ failed him, was that Yuuri was just embarrassed about it. But not even knowing… “So, the talk about liking my designs wasn’t an excuse?”

“No, that sounded pretty genuine when he introduced himself before I dragged you out of your corner.”

“But he’s so different!”

Chris sounds exasperated, but in the fond way that a decade of friendship usually creates. “You of all people should understand what alcohol, good music, and dim lights will do.”

“Chris, I _pined_ . I feel like an idiot!” Victor is distraught. Chris, however, is obviously not, and that is distressing Victor more, doesn’t he know that’s his _duty_ as a _best friend_.

“Wow, Victor, you usually ignore that feeling.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Victor replies, blowing papers up and off his desk with a dramatic flail of his arms. “What do I do?”

Chris sighs, his breath causing static in the earpiece that at any other time Victor would have jerked away from. As it is, Victor just leans heavier into the hand pressing his phone against his cheek. If he left an imprint, maybe he could divine answers from it in the mirror. “That, my dear Victor, is something you have to work out. Just… don’t scare him away, yeah? He seems like he could do good work.”

Victor knows that Chris says the last sentence for plausible deniability. Chris has watched him entertain and discard lovers almost as much as Chris has himself, but they both remember a night that made Victor feel actual, fun Emotions™ for the first time in a long while, and well, who wants to mess up that?

***

“Phichit.”

“Yuuri, I’m almost there, can’t you just text like a normal person?”

Yuuri’s about to retort, something he would later wish was witty and did anything to counter Phichit in the way Phichit could always do to him, when Phichit actually does walk through the door of the tiny little Polynesian-themed bar that one of his cousins owns, deliberately making eye contact as he presses end on the screen of his iPhone, pointing it glaringly in Yuuri’s direction.

Yuuri’s half-formed attempt at a reply dies in his throat. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he says instead, weakly letting his hand fall to the bar. Phichit takes the seat next to him, the scarf tied over a smartly buttoned vest and a rolling suitcase behind him telling Yuuri that he’d come straight here from the airport. Yuuri supposes that Phichit’s zest and endless energy work pretty well for him as a flight attendant - not to mention the opportunities for Instagram likes.

“I know you’re freaking out, so spill. I’ll buy you a drink even, if you need it.”

Oh god, no. “Phichit, he’s amazing.”

Phichit settles against the counter, ordering them both coffee. His expression is expectant, but he says nothing.

“And absolutely terrifying.”

“There it is,” Phichit’s voice is soft though, without judgment. Yuuri continues his daily thanks for Phichit’s existence.

“I never thought I’d get this, and I feel so bad leaving Mari to help out mom and dad, and I’m _not_ a designer, Phichit, not really, just an admirer and I feel like I’m lying to them all, oh god.”

Phichit puts a hand on his arm and his coffee in his hands, leveling him with a look that on anyone else would be scathing, but on Phichit is just… frank. “Yuuri, you had to send them portfolio pieces right? You met with that absolutely terrifying woman Lillia, managed not to piss your pants, and they told you to come back.” Phichit leans back, shifting his gaze to the mirror behind the bar, almost lazily and entirely for Yuuri’s benefit. Yuuri breathes out and manages to undo a few of the taught muscles in his back. “You might not have gone to design school, but you care.”

“Yeah, about fabric and Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri says, mumbling semi-darkly at the polished wood in front of him. Without the tension in his shoulders, the stools are awful for his posture.

Phichit shakes his head, finally giving in and ordering them both a beer. “And that was good enough. _You_ are good enough Yuuri.”

“Sure.”

Phichit rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead turning more fully towards the bar. “So how have my hamsters been!”

Yuuri snorts, laughter overtaking the uncomfortably heavy feeling in his stomach. “You know, at this rate, they’re going to spend more time at my apartment then yours. They’re gonna love me more.” Color returns to his fingers as he relaxes his grip around his mug and reaches for the pint glass.

Phichit is scandalized, one hand on his cheek and the other pressed daintily against his chest. “You homewrecker!”

***

Yuuri doesn’t get a new suit that night. After the beer, Phichit coming back to his apartment to pick up his hamsters for the two weeks until his next overnight trip, and continuing to grapple with his emotions, Yuuri is exhausted. He also has no idea where to start with a new suit, though he admits he does have the money for a nicer one, so he vows to ask Christophe tomorrow. Asking Victor seems too daunting, despite it being his request.

Instead he flops heavily onto his bed, half-dressed, and thinks about the boxes of _Amour de la Vie_ lingerie tucked delicately away in his closet. Victor’s shop and label go by many different shorthands - the most notable, and apparently most annoying, is _Victor’s Secret_ \- but Yuuri’s always thought the French phrase said more about Victor than his French proficiency and his well-known habit of reinventing cliches. He doesn’t know _what_ exactly, but it’s something that sits in his chest, tucked behind his heart, and maybe now he’ll be able to find out.

Victor Nikiforov debuted as a model when Yuuri was twelve years-old, hair long and features graceful. At sixteen, Victor had come onto the international stage a shining, silver beacon of beauty and exceptional confidence, bending and blurring lines between genders and personalities with a flick of his wrist. Yuuri had been utterly besotted.

Yuuri still is, to be honest, but obviously in a _much_ weirder way.

Going from model to designer was a logical step for Victor, who, in Yuuri’s mind, seemed to get better and more amazing as he fell into and out of various parts of the industry, only to end up in _underwear_ of all things. He’d had no end of critics, but Yuuri certainly wasn’t one of them. Especially to teenaged Yuuri, Victor was only doing what he’d always done; surprise the world.

At twenty-one, Yuuri bought his first set from Victor’s newly created label.

Yuuri didn’t mean to, exactly: rather, he hadn’t meant to buy it _to wear_.

He’d meant to buy it to admire, as motivation for the sewing classes he’d decided to take on the side of working at his parents’ company and the lessons he’d begged from his mother, but after half a bottle of red wine by himself and Phichit’s insistent and mostly-giggled pestering, he’d received the package two weeks later with a ‘Made to Order’ card tucked softly inside the box.

Yuuri couldn’t let it go to waste, now could he.

Despite the fatigue half-lidding his eyes and making him want to settle farther into his soft mattress, he stands and heads to his closet, pulling that first box from the bottom of the stack. By himself, Yuuri had stopped feeling embarrassed about this very quickly, though his anxiety liked to feast upon the idea that one day a guest might get too nosy and happen upon his stash. He isn’t letting that get to him tonight though. He wants to look nice for a while, and with Victor’s voice _saying his name_ still incredibly fresh in his mind, why not now?

The set is mostly dark navy lace, finespun and supple, the fabric more like liquid around his fingers. Yuuri is not particularly curvy in a feminine way, but years of hauling bolts of fabric and his childhood dream of being a dancer have left him filled out in muscular, yet soft ways that he takes advantage of here.

The bra has a halter neckline, large strips of lace coming together at a band of silk that wraps around his throat, leaving a small triangle of skin uncovered on his chest. He doesn’t fit it quite the same at 24, but enough still that the fabric settles comfortable on his skin. Yuuri clips the garter belt around his waist before slipping on the bottoms and digging around in the box for the thigh high stockings he’d bought to match. The panties are scandalous, made in a similar triangle design to the bra but across his ass, and for a moment Yuuri wishes he had the gall to wear this for someone. Well, the gall to date anyone at all.

The last closure fits together on the stockings and Yuuri stops to look at himself in the long mirror against the wall opposite his bed. He’s tucked himself into the bottoms in a way that he hopes doesn’t stretch the fabric on one side too much, but the fabric is forgiving enough to make allowances for his unusual addition. He’s not a woman, doesn’t know if he would want to be, but like this, he’s something in the middle of a feminine mystique and the uncouth, unsophisticated masculinity he drapes across himself in daily life. On a night he plans this, he’ll dig out the cosmetics he’s impulse bought throughout years of understanding friendship with Phichit, and complete the image. Kohl around the eyes, mascara, blush, and lipstick the color of apples in fall.

Yuuri traces the lines of lace from his collarbones to his thighs with feather-light touches, fabric dark against his too-pale skin. Victor once teased in an interview that he’d model his own work as a surprise, but it’d never happened, and Yuuri wonders if it would have looked anything like this. But Yuuri is soft around the middle, his thighs are thicker around than both of Victor’s together look, and his shoulders are thinner; in his mind’s eye, Victor would be much more elegant.

Yuuri falls back onto the bed, his cheeks flushing warm and red. _Elegant_ is probably the best word to describe Victor and his creations, sultry but without feeling cheap or overused. Yuuri wonders if Victor designed for himself before he decided to settle, if he used himself as a model or others. The latter option makes his throat tighten uncomfortably for no reason at all, so instead he focuses on the former.

Would Victor choose black for himself, or another color? Yuuri likes blue the most, and Victor could pull off something that matched his eyes, but other things would suit him better. Red, perhaps, especially with lips to match?

Yuuri shivers, his fingernails poking little half-moons into the flesh of his thighs, just above his stockings. Oh, he didn’t mean to end up like this (he never does, he thinks), but he can feel the waistband of the panties stretch just a little bit tighter. Reaching his right hand over just a bit, he finds his cock half-hard, trapped in expensive lace, and he gasps at the gentle touch of the fabric against sensitive skin. He brushes his fingers over himself through the lace, ever so lightly, and he’s not just half-hard anymore.

Yuuri imagines Victor then, doing this with that indulgent smile of his, whispering to Yuuri about how he didn’t know how much of a _fan_ Yuuri was, how _grateful_ he was for Yuuri’s patronage.

If Yuuri kept on with this, he was going to ruin the panties.

Yuuri slips the waistband down, the fabric sliding down around his ass and sending sparks through him, so that he can grip himself a little more solidly. Yuuri throws his head back into the sheets, and brings his free hand up to run through his hair before settling over the lace covering his chest. He starts needy, uninhibited strokes with the hand on his cock, rubbing a nipple slowly through the cup of the bra.

He wants to be beautiful like this, enveloped in expense and grace he doesn’t possess in real life, to maybe have Victor _tell_ him he’s beautiful like this.

Yuuri’s toes curl in his stockings and he picks up his pace.

God, he wants Victor to do more to him and to do nothing, to hover over him while he touches himself, Victor directing the next step. Yuuri twists his wrist as he strokes up, catching his short nails beneath the head of his dick and bites his lip, imaging Victor biting it for him. Yuuri moves his other hand back down, shoves the panties farther down and all the way off, onto the floor. He grips his left thigh and pulls it back towards himself, letting his hand drift lower.

Would Victor narrate this? Would he ask if Yuuri wanted Victor to touch him, where he wanted Victor to touch him? Yuuri’s probably overestimating how much Victor would care, but it feels so good when he breathes out harshly and circles a finger down around his hole, the tip catching against the rim.

He doesn’t slip it in though, just teases himself while he thinks about Victor delicately calling his name, looking at him curiously and hungrily all at once, eyes eating him up and making his skin feel too small and finally just right at the same time, and suddenly he’s coming all over his hand, his back bending, sticky white clashing against dark blue.

Yuuri pants into his sheets, his hair sticking uncomfortably to his forehead. When he can, he makes sure there’s no come on the underwear, sighing heavily when he finds there isn’t. It’s too expensive for that, even if in some ways that’s the end goal for such a garment.

Yuuri feels sated, an itch that had been set beneath his skin since this morning finally, blissfully scratched, but now he’s also ashamed.

Victor is his _boss now, and he goes and does this._

__

__

Suddenly weary and uncomfortable, Yuuri gets up and undresses gingerly, picking up the panties and folding the whole set on top of it’s box so that he can hand wash it all tomorrow. He goes through the motions of his nightly routine, unable to look at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed in a much less sexy pair of boxers and a t-shirt.

Yuuri doesn’t like the moments after he finishes ‘dressing up,’ as he calls it; he feels guilty and a little messed up. Normal people don’t search out a childhood idol to work for, only to continue to feature them in sexual fantasies. Normal people don’t spend hundreds of dollars on lacy underwear, especially if it doesn’t exactly match their gender.

Yuuri curls up on his side and stares blindly into the dark - half of him wants this nebulous idea of ‘normal people’ to be the myth he’s sure it is, but the other half wants to make no trouble, let society dictate as it will, and hide himself in a cave for the rest of his life.

That night, neither side wins.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/us_en/kendall-suspender-black) is the set I thought of Yuuri in, btw.
> 
> Find me on tumblr, at LemonSchwaySchway!


End file.
